


Arrow Strike

by mabyn



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ill-advised mutant shenanigans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/pseuds/mabyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unfortunate street confrontation gets Erik shot with Cupid's Arrow. Charles is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrow Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein Azazel is a mutant with Cupid-like powers. (Just go with it.) 
> 
> Thanks to alby for the beta. <3

“Watch it, asshole.”

 _Here we go again._ Charles brings his chair to a halt on the sunny Manhattan street. 

As much as he has come to enjoy Sunday brunch with Erik, it’s not the most peaceful part of his week. Erik is a firecracker ready to go off at the slightest provocation, and at the mutant issues study group where Charles first met him, shock and awe is practically on the agenda. This won’t be the first time Charles has had to nudge minds into peaceful retreat. Observing the enraged face of the man Erik just crashed into, Charles is certain his gift will be required again. 

“I think you owe me an apology,” the stranger says. His face isn’t red from anger, it’s just _red_ , and a long tail that culminates in a point snakes up over his shoulder. It can’t be easy to walk the streets with a visible mutation like that, and Charles would love to invite the man into his office to inquire about — 

“You bumped into me, stomped on my foot, and ruined my morning. I’d say you’re the one who should be asking for forgiveness, or do you prefer I show you how to get on your knees?” Nearby, parked cars vibrate threateningly.

“Is that a challenge?”

“It is.” 

The mutant’s tail juts forward, while Erik flexes muscles made fearsome from long hours working in the steel factory. Erik volleys an inventive and obscene insult. The mutant strikes with the point of his tail, which grazes the skin of Erik’s cheek. It’s a warning; the next blow will be worse. Charles wants to stay out of it, but the tension is escalating, not easing.

“Gentleman,” Charles says. He sends out a wave of calm that immediately relaxes the hard set of both their shoulders. “I think we were all on our way home, weren’t we?” The anger on the mutant’s face fades into a look somewhere between blissed out and confused. To Charles’s relief, he turns around and staggers off, crashing into a mailbox as he goes. Charles hopes he makes it to his destination without too much harm, but mostly he’s just glad it’s over. He wants his pancakes, after all, with plenty of syrup. He exhales a sigh and shakes his head. 

“This illustrates my point that not all mutations are useful. Sometimes they merely alter the appearance in such a way as to alienate the mutant from common society. Although you may disagree with me here, I believe in the short term, a cure may be a temporary, that is, if the mutant elects to …. Erik?”

Erik is gazing down at him with so much fondness in his eyes that Charles blushes. Erik is an attractive man, of course. That’s merely an observable fact, and Charles’s recognition of that fact has nothing to do with whether or not he’s personally interested in him. Social norms favor tall men with wide shoulders and narrow waistlines, symmetrical face shapes and defined jaws. Why, Charles could list ad nauseam the number of actors who fit that description, never mind the — 

“What are you doing?” Charles asks, startled. Erik is tracing Charles’s cheekbone with his thumb. That stupid expression lingers on his face. Charles has to summon all of his ethics not to violate Erik’s privacy and peer into his thoughts right this moment. 

Erik’s hand finds its way into Charles’s hair. “Let me treat you to brunch today, darling.”

“Darling?” 

“Order anything you like.”

Charles wrinkles his brow. He’d meant only to calm Erik enough to avoid a fight, but perhaps he’d overreached. How incredibly clumsy of him; it was as if he were an inexperienced psionic just beginning to control his telepathy. Ah well, the effects would wear off presently. In fact, he’s surprised they haven’t already. Erik’s hand drops to the back of his chair, gently nudging Charles forward. This is turning out to be a very strange day.

*

Mondays should be stricken from existence. Charles makes his coffee and settles at the dining room table to review his calendar. He grips his forehead, wishing he could make the pain disappear. The day ahead is filled with two lectures, a meeting with a student, and the quickly approaching deadline for the MDF conference proposal. He isn’t ready for any of it, not when he’d slept so poorly. Erik had continued to act out of character even when they’d parted, which rendered unlikely his first hypothesis that his telepathy was responsible for Erik’s strange behavior. Charles wishes they were close enough friends that he might call and check in on him. Perhaps an email would be appropriate. 

When he logs into his account, he’s surprised to see Erik has already written. Charles smiles despite himself. Maybe it’s an awkward apology for the way Erik tried to hold Charles’s hand as they brunched, or that just before leaving, he’d swooped down for an awkward kiss on the cheek that Charles can still feel on his skin. He clicks on the email.

_I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. I can’t believe I was such a dick._

Back to his usual self, then. Charles is relieved, although it was kind of nice to discover how solicitous Erik could be. Now that everything is normal again, he doesn’t mind admitting a part of him has almost enjoyed the attention, even though Erik isn’t really his type. After all, he hasn’t been on a date in longer than he wants to think about. He reads the rest of the message.

_Let me make it up to you? I’ll stop by the faculty club for lunch. Meet me outside at 12:30, or they’ll never admit someone who looks like me._

It’s true. Erik is quite a sight fresh from the factory, his face covered in the grease he never bothers to wipe away, especially if he suspects his appearance will make academic types uncomfortable. 

_Until then, I thought you might enjoy this._

The sentence is followed by a long poem written in unrhymed iambic pentameter, and it addresses the object of the poet’s love. That Erik would email it to him is… odd, but Charles remembers they recently argued about poetry’s inaccessibility to most people, and as usual with Erik, things had gotten a little intense. Erik accused him of being an overeducated snob who looks down on the working man; Charles had countered that Erik was a boar who had no appreciation for the subtleties of art. They’d sat in tense silence until the check came, and their parting had been stiff. Perhaps in sending the poem Erik had intended to demonstrate his willingness to consider alternative points of view. The poem is rather lovely, in truth. Interested to read more of the poet’s work, Charles googles one of the lines. The search calls up no results.

*

When Charles arrives at the faculty club, Erik isn’t there. He wheels himself under the eaves to protect himself from the rain. It’s likely Erik’s supervisor wouldn’t let him leave on time. Charles can be patient.

When fifteen minutes pass, Charles can no longer convince himself Erik is coming. It doesn’t really matter. They’re not friends, and although it would’ve been pleasant to lunch with him, he did just see Erik yesterday. He doesn’t know what he was thinking agreeing to this to begin with — he has too much on his plate today and the headache still throbs between his temples.

Since he’s here already, he may as well eat. The maitre d’ recognizes him and points the way to his preferred table. The dining room is nearly empty when he enters, with only a few older faculty sitting near the windows picking through their salads. Usually classical music plays lightly in the background, but today there’s a live folk artist strumming a guitar by the fireplace. He’s sitting at a table that’s been laid out with a breadbasket and two glasses filled with water, which is odd if he’s there to provide the music, but the audience is small and ignores him anyway. Charles has to strain to hear his voice, which is decidedly mediocre, and he wonders why the man has been invited. Probably a graduate student. The man pauses in his strumming and raises his head.

“Charles!”

“Erik?”

Erik hurries over to greet him. “I’ve been waiting for you forever. So strange. They let me in today without even asking for ID.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. He can see why. There’s not a trace of grease on Erik’s face, and in a button-down shirt under a v-neck sweater he might pass for a young professor.

“Did you wear that to work?”

“Work?”

“You know, your job at the factory?”

Erik waves his hand. “Life is beautiful, Charles. I can’t waste it trapped in a box, repeating the same thing over and over again.”

“But you don’t — “

“This, this is what’s precious.” Erik reaches for his hand. He has that look in his eyes again, the one from yesterday. 

Charles draws back. “You said you were sorry.” 

“Oh, I am. I am. My treatment of that fellow mutant was reprehensible. My behavior must’ve made you so uncomfortable. I thought I’d make it up to you today with a song.”

The mutant on the street. The scratch, still visible, on Erik’s cheek. The starry look in his eyes. The ridiculous outfit. The guitar. It all comes together in one heady rush. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, but it is,” Erik insists. He’s already begun to strum. 

“No, really,” Charles says. This time he’s the one to reach for Erik’s hand, and Erik is so surprised he pauses in his playing. Charles decides to take advantage of Erik’s attention before Erik can humiliate himself further. “That red fellow, did he… do anything to you?”

“Do anything?”

“Did you feel anything while you were arguing? Any strange sensations? A tingling under the skin, a burst of energy in your mind, anything?” Charles restrains himself for digging into Erik’s memories himself. The Erik he knows objects to being under the microscope.

“I was angry, but then all that disappeared, and I can only describe what I felt next as bliss. Why was I bothering with that stranger, when I could be devoting my attention to you? So that’s what I intend to focus all my time on now, Charles. Making you happy.” 

The declaration catches Charles off-guard. It pierces him before he has a chance to corral his defenses, but as soon as he recovers it’s easy to dismiss. Charles has always taken care of himself, and he’s good at it. He likes it that way, mostly. These aren’t words that sound right on Erik’s lips. He’s being made a fool of, they both are. Charles clears his throat.

“You’ll feel more yourself after a meal.”

Charles talks the entire time so Erik won’t. He’s had a lot of practice pretending not to notice people staring at him, and it’s a small thing to ignore Erik’s rapt gaze. 

*

Charles scrolls through his search results until he comes to a Valentine’s Day article in a local newspaper. There’s a thumbnail of a man with crimson skin smiling wickedly, an arrow pointed over his shoulder. Charles winces at the title, “Meet Azazel: A Real-Life Cupid.” He knows it’s important for mutants to tell their stories, but not like this, not for the banal amusement of humans. 

Despite his ethical objections, Charles is eager for answers and scans the article hungrily. The mutant — Azazel — discovered his powers as a child when he accidentally caused his school classmates to fall in love with each other. Nowadays he uses his power only on couples who are already in committed relationships and are looking to spruce up their love life. It’s obviously bullshit. The mutant hadn’t hesitated a moment to tamper with Erik’s emotions. 

Charles reads on. There’s a brief recap of Azazel’s life, some context about mutations, the gradual integration of mutants into “normal” society (as if they hadn’t always already been part of the human world), albeit reluctantly, blah blah blah. Finally, toward the end of the article, Charles finds what he’s searching for.

The interviewer asks what would happen if those Azazel “shoots” with his arrow decides they no longer wish to be in love. _The effects are temporary. My clients become obsessed with their beloved, all they want to do is think about them, worship them, court them, and then after a week or so, poof! It’s over._

Charles flops back in his chair and runs both hands through his hair. A week. This is not permanent. All he has to do is avoid Erik for a week and this will all be over. 

It should be a relief.

*

Well. This is awkward.

Charles immediately backs out of his office and closes the door.

“How did you get in? Never mind.” Erik controls metal; unlocking the door is trivial. _Obviously._ Charles is too unnerved to think straight. He tries to purge from his mind the image of Erik sprawled on his desk, holding a single rose. “Can you put some clothes on, please?”

“I thought you’d enjoy the surprise,” Erik calls from inside. “Too fast? I could take you out for dinner tonight. Write you another poem.”

“I don’t want another poem, Erik. I want you out of my office.”

There’s some shuffling inside. Something clatters to the floor, followed by an “ow!” Finally Erik pulls open the door. He’s wearing a half-buttoned shirt over tight jeans, and his hair is a mess. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed after being properly — Charles tries not to think. Or stare.

“Good morning, handsome.” Erik presses the rose into Charles’s unwilling hands. “You look ravishing, as always.” 

Charles rolls his eyes. “Can you please move from the doorway? I have a pile of papers to grade before my class at 10.”

Erik drops his eyes and his face falls. “Of course,” he says and steps out of the way. 

With Erik looking like a wounded puppy, Charles almost feels bad for being so abrupt. Almost. He goes to his desk and unloads the content of his backpack, twenty undergraduate essays he’d tried and failed to focus on the night before. He picks up a pen and opens the first one. 

Charles reads the same paragraph over and over again. He hopes Erik will get the message soon so he can concentrate on grading without any further distractions, but Erik continues to hover by the bookcase, inspecting the volumes as if he’s actually interested. Charles sighs impatiently and flips the page with a little more vigor than necessary.

“Charles — “

“What is it?” Charles asks, cutting him off.

“I’m hoping… there is something I’ve wanted to talk to you about. Do you know…” He wrings his hands before finally drawing in a long breath. “Charles, why haven’t we ever dated?”

Charles gives up. He throws the pen down and folds his arms over his chest. They both know why. Or at least the other version of Erik had. 

“It’s complicated.”

“Is it? Because you see, I’ve always wanted to. But you’re so… You have everything: intelligence, education, culture, a great position. Everyone respects you. Hell, everyone _adores_ you. And you’re beautiful. It’s not complicated, really.” The wounded puppy dog look returns to Erik’s face. “The truth is I’d be like an atomic bomb detonating in your perfect life.”

Charles stares. Is _that_ what Erik thinks? A perfect life? Charles has more or less accepted being alone. While that’s okay for now, if he’s honest with himself a life without a partner — someone to argue politics with, someone to hold at night — is a reality on which he dare not dwell too long. 

Erik is every bit as intelligent as Charles’s colleagues, impossible to fool and quick to see to the core of things. But Erik is a hard man. A cruel man, sometimes. As much as Charles is drawn to him — to his mind, his fierce belief in the fight — there’s something cold and sharp in Erik that scares him, even if he suspects the armor guards something more vulnerable, raw. The depth of those dark waters have kept Charles firmly on the shore, despite the lure of grey eyes and soft skin. 

Charles has been right to restrain his emotions where Erik is concerned. For this man may look like Erik, talk like Erik, smell of Erik, but he’s not Erik, not really. He’s a shadow version stitched together from the generic pattern of the lover. He doesn’t mean to ask that question, say these things. 

The poem, the serenade, the surprise display on his desk — these are amusing, in their way. Charles can shrug them off.

“I need to get back to work,” Charles says quietly. “Let’s have brunch again on Sunday, hm? But until then, if you have any regard for me, any at all, don’t contact me. Please.”

*

Erik doesn’t show up on Sunday.

*

Charles throws himself into his work. It’s easily done: the MDF conference is coming up, his students’ final projects are due, and he’s working on final revisions for an article. He still leads the mutant issues study group, but Erik doesn’t attend anymore. Erik should know Charles wouldn’t hold what happened against him. It wasn’t his fault (well, maybe a little). Charles tries to move on. He’s not sure from what; there was never anything to move on from. 

He’s angry, too. This Azazel used his power to attack someone, and the fact that Erik provoked the incident doesn’t justify the misuse of powers, especially when human society is as suspicious of mutants as it is. It’s unethical, and it’s political suicide. He wonders how many others have been victimized by this man. He finds himself googling Azazel in his free time, comes up with a phone number, an address. He types the first few digits into his phone, then stops. He considers having his driver bring him to Azazel’s place of work in order to wreak some havoc on his life for a change. He nearly does it.

Finally he just calls Erik instead.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“I didn’t expect to call.”

The conversation is strained. They talk about work, the study group, the terrible food at the faculty club. Charles laughs at something Erik says. Erik warms to him. Somehow they agree to meet for brunch on Sunday as they used to do.

When Sunday finally arrives — Charles reminding himself the whole while that things are normal again and they’re just friends — brunch proceeds as it always does, Erik reaching into Charles’s plate to nab extra potatoes, their conversation an intellectual spar that Charles has missed, Erik alternately charming and impatient with the waiters (but they’re familiar faces now, the staff mostly ignoring Erik’s impatience with smiles and affectionate taps on the shoulder). Beneath it all there’s an undercurrent of anticipation that Charles has occasionally noticed in the past but always shrugged off. It’s not so easy to ignore anymore.

Charles resists the heavy disappointment when the check comes and Erik takes out his wallet. They haggle over the bill, and then Charles pays as usual. It’s already 1:30. They’ve been here for hours, and Charles has a mountain of research to climb this afternoon. This is what he signed up for, he reminds himself, being an academic is a 24/7 job. He imagines reading at his desk at home while Erik tinkers around the house. It’s a stupidly domestic idea that Charles tucks away into the furthest corner of his mind. He never would’ve entertained such thoughts a few weeks ago.

The weather is mild outside, that perfect warm spring sun, not too hot, accompanied by a light breeze that seems to justify whiling away Sunday afternoon on long, contemplative turns around the park. 

“I can bring you home,” Charles offers as always. His driver is probably thumbing through a newspaper in the car, checking his watch.

“No need,” Erik says.

Charles follows Erik to the bus stop, not quite wanting to say goodbye yet. They still haven’t talked about what happened. With anyone else — Hank, Jean, Moira — Charles would’ve gotten a good laugh out of the entire episode and teased the victim mercilessly. Erik, however, embarrasses easily, and there’s nothing more important to him than appearing to be in control. Given what’s happened to him in his life, Charles doesn’t blame him. 

“Bit of the elephant in the room, isn’t it?” Charles finally says when the bus stop is in sight.

Erik frowns. It’s clear from the darkness on his face that he knows exactly what Charles is talking about. “I hope you can bring yourself to forget the things I did.”

Charles flushes. Much of what Erik did was silly, outrageous even, but not all of it. Some of the things he said… Charles isn’t sure he wants to forget anymore. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Charles, I broke into your office and climbed naked onto your desk.”

Charles has to laugh at that. “You remember it all, then?”

Erik stops walking and turns around to face him. The look on his face is curiously similar to when he’d been under Azazel’s spell, but harsher. “Of course I do.”

Something about the way Erik says it makes Charles’s stomach flip-flop. Maybe it was a bad idea to bring this up after all.

Erik’s voice turns serious. “I also remember some of the things I said. About work. Life. About what’s important. What’s precious. Charles, if I hurt you — “

“You didn’t,” Charles interrupts, not wanting to hear the rest of Erik’s apology. Perhaps Erik has always been aware of what Charles has only just realized himself, and pities him. “That was the enchantment talking, not you. You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand, both then and now, that those feelings were not your own, that they were just illusions.”

“I don’t think you do understand,” Erik says. “Azazel isn’t a god. You misjudge his mutation. He doesn’t have the power to create love. He only makes it impossible for us to hide it.” 

Only years of weathering every oddball comment lobbed at him after a lecture gives Charles the composure to keep himself from openly gaping at Erik. For a moment he even wonders if somehow Azazel attacked him again, but no, this is the Erik he knows so well, even if the words coming out of his mouth make no sense at all, no matter how much Charles wants to hear them. 

“Listen,” Charles says warningly, “it’s taken a lot of work for me to get to the place I am now.”

“And it hasn’t for me?”

“Of course it must have, but — “

Erik holds up his hand. “Enough. You’ve made yourself clear. You don’t feel the same. There’s no need to to invent excuses to save my pride. This isn’t the first time I’ve been rejected.” 

“Erik — “

“I’ve to catch that bus.”

“Wait, please.” It seems impossible, but if there’s even a chance — “Let me show you.”

“Show me?” Erik looks confused, but when Charles puts his fingers to his temple, he just nods.

Charles sends out his confusion and loneliness in a wave, the insecurity he’s become so adept at masking, the yearning he feels when Erik is near. It hovers between them, binding them together for the moment they share it. He can’t hide it from himself any longer, and he won’t hide it from Erik.

“Oh,” Erik says when Charles is done. He looks too flustered to say anything else. 

“That’s why I’m afraid,” Charles says, inching closer. 

People passing by on the sidewalk politely avoid watching. Charles pulls at the placket of Erik’s shirt, and Erik bends. Erik threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Charles’s neck. Their lips barely touch, more a question than an answer. Erik hasn’t shaved that morning and his skin is rough, but he smells clean like rain. The moment stretches. Charles resists the urge to ask for more, as much as he wants it, and strokes Erik's throat, the stubble coarse beneath his fingertips. Erik yields a quiet sound, and then he presses down against Charles at last, kissing him so deep Charles forgets to breathe. 

“Don’t make me go home alone,” Erik whispers when they part.

Charles may have been struck stupid, but he’s no fool. He thinks about abandoning all his plans for work that afternoon to watch a movie with Erik on the couch. He thinks about all the arguments they’ll have before dinner. He thinks about Erik climbing into his bed. It seems unreal, and yet here Erik stands before him. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they turn away from the bus stop and head back to Charles’s waiting car, Charles wonders if he should call Azazel after all. It turns out he owes the man a thank you.


End file.
